


sharps

by bog gremlin (tomatocages)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bodily Autonomy, Body Modification, Character Study, Chronic Illness, Dom/sub Undertones, Endgame Keith/Shiro (Voltron), Gen, Genital Piercing, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, No Epilogue, Post-Canon, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Rebellious Shiro (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Shiro's sense of humor, Time Skips, mentioned past Adam/Shiro - Freeform, no Season 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:15:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27940613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomatocages/pseuds/bog%20gremlin
Summary: “I’ll make sure your tombstone has something nice on it," Matt says. "Like,here lies Takashi Shirogane. He didn’t usually think with his dick.”“Shut up, Matt,” Shiro says serenely.Or,Annoyed with mounting restrictions from both his doctors and the Garrison, Shiro gets a piercing. Buoyed by the rebellion, he keeps adding to his collection.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 280





	sharps

**Author's Note:**

> Note from when I added this to my WIP spreadsheet: "Is this...nsfw gen?" 
> 
> \- many, many thanks to ils and aphor for talking through elements of this.

I think there’s something in me  
more horrible than they’re detecting –

I think I’d kill to stay alive,  
at least myself,

and if you can’t accept that  
you don’t know the angel in my blood.

What if I ran out of a body to give you?  
What would you let me take from you?

A star, a raft, a bloody cloth, a bloody cloud,  
my body, my body, I’m running for you only,  
and my fear is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

— from [_Name My Time of Death and See What I Do To You_](https://yalereview.yale.edu/sites/default/files/files/Ritvo%2CMax_NameMyTimeofDeath_apr2017.pdf), Max Ritvo

* * *

Shiro gets the first piercing in a fit of pique. 

He’s just gotten another batch of test results back, all with the same readings as the last time. Like he _expected._ Generally this kind of stable report is considered good news for someone with his tumultuous diagnostic history. It indicates a lack of atrophy, that all of his markers are good and that his disease isn’t progressing. He feels strong more days than he doesn’t, and he’s flying high and above the other cadets in his class (ha). Shiro’s not just remarkable for someone with his condition — he’s flat-out impressive. He’s made a point of being _superlative._ The tests indicate that, terminal diagnosis aside, Shiro is a prime specimen of humanity.

But the Garrison interprets the results as a sign that Shiro’s stagnating. According to the higher-ups, none of whom, Shiro’s sure, have a medical background, Shiro’s muscles will give out sooner rather than later. His disease will progress and all the energy and expensive training they’ve lavished on their golden boy will be for naught, so perhaps they should cut their losses now —

And so just once, Shiro decides, he’s going to make a decision about his body and he’s not going to consult a doctor or a superior officer when he does it. It’s not a flight plan; his body is not technically Garrison property. It’s a shape, an attractive house for Shiro’s excellent brain, it’s a block of potentiality — Shiro is greedy about the time he has in his body. He’s going to make the most of it. 

He’s not an idiot. If there’s one thing Shiro is confident in, it’s his ability to make a plan and stick with it. And that’s exactly how he approaches getting stuck. He reads up on every piercing salon in a fifty-mile radius before settling on one the next town over with impeccable ratings, a detailed description of their autoclave process, and an immaculate image gallery. He sets an appointment. He makes Matt go with him. 

“I feel like I’m accompanying a man on his way to the execution squad,” Matt whines as they park in the studio’s lot. “I’ll make sure your tombstone has something nice on it, like, _here lies Takashi Shirogane. He didn’t usually think with his dick._ ”

“Shut up, Matt,” Shiro says serenely. He’s got a _plan._ “Or else Iverson’s gonna find out about your role in the Noodle Incident.”

Matt makes a face that indicates Shiro is committing a hideous betrayal. “That’s not playing fair, man.”

“Relax,” Shiro tells him. “You’re acting like you’re the one who’s picking out some jewelry today. It’s really not a big deal.” 

The process is — fast. It hurts, but it doesn’t hurt more than the unspeakable incident where he caught himself in the zipper of his uniform slacks. Shiro listens attentively when the piercer gives him a bottle of cleaning solution and a neatly printed sheet of aftercare instructions, his body thrumming with adrenaline. The jewelry he chose for the frenum piercing isn’t heavy, but he’s absolutely aware of it, the way it protrudes beneath the head of his dick and rubs tenderly against the loose fabric of his boxers. Shiro’s glad Matt can drive him home, because he spends the entire forty-minute journey reading and re-reading the aftercare instructions, marveling over his own gumption. He did it. For once, Shiro chose to have an encounter with a sterile needle, and the result is that — something about his body has changed. It’s a change he wanted, a change he initiated and controlled. The piercing site throbs in time with his heartbeat and it’s nearly as thrilling as pulling up out of a dive with only seconds to spare.

“Wanna see?” he asks Matt later. 

“No thank you,” Matt makes a face and looks pissed off that the mess hall chose tonight of all night to serve hot dogs. “I looked it up when you told me what you wanted and I wish I hadn’t. I had to get my little sister to wipe my browser history and then talk to me about her latest AI project until I lost all ability to focus on my ruined short-term memory. I’ve had my trauma for the day.”

Shiro shrugs. “Your loss.” 

Later, that night, in the privacy of his bunk, Shiro spends a long time looking at his dick. Well. His dick, and its new piercing. The barbell gleams in the low light, and it serves to accentuate the plummy redness at the tip of his cock, the length and girth of the shaft. It’s impressive, even with the hints of dye still clinging to his skin and the way the site is swollen from the procedure.

He doesn’t touch it, not beyond how the instructions say to, but Shiro’s already thinking about when he can make another appointment. One barbell looks good. He can only imagine what his dick would look like with two. 

Anyway. That’s how it starts. 

* * *

By the time Shiro’s made lieutenant, he’s shattered over a dozen Garrison records, recruited half of the next incoming class of cadets, and is in the final selection pool for the Kerberos mission. He also has five barbell piercings down the shaft of his dick, each one bright and silver and heavy. Adam thinks it’s ridiculous, but Shiro doesn’t pay him much heed — Adam’s not _complaining_ about Shiro’s dick, he just thinks the whole exercise is a little barbaric. And maybe it is. But Shiro likes it. He likes the little thrill he gets every time he sits back in the piercer’s station, the way the metal shines and shifts under his skin when he plays with the piercings. He’s contrary enough that he likes the little burst of _fuck-you_ feeling he gets when the doctors tell him to take things easy, or to dial up the settings on his electrostim bracelet, or when Sanda makes a comment about how the Kerberos mission will be rigorous. 

“This mission is important to the Garrison — to _humanity,_ ” She remarks at one briefing. Sanda’s more outright aggressive than passive aggressive, so Shiro’s not surprised when she points to him specifically. “Your capabilities should be called into question, Shirogane.This isn’t for the faint of heart.” 

_Right,_ Shiro thinks. _Not for the faint of heart. Well, you should see my dick._

It’s a ritual now. After the first time with Matt, Shiro’s never taken anyone else along with him. He always sets the appointment for the start of the day, so he can spend the rest of his off-time settling down from the buzz he gets after accomplishing one more task. 

This is something just for himself. At this point he’s got a regular piercer who makes recommendations based on Shiro’s particular anatomy.

“You can accommodate a couple more,” Mercy says, clinically. “Not everyone can. But you’ve got a nice cock — the skin’s pretty mobile, and you’re not prone to migration.”

“You’re the boss,” Shiro says, but he preens a little anyway. 

“Can I take a photo for my gallery?”

He lets her. The odds of someone putting a face to the dick — well. Shiro has other things on his mind. 

As much as Shiro likes the way the piercings look and feel, and as many photos as he takes for his own personal enjoyment, it’s not a topic he generally discusses: Shiro is the youngest, greatest pilot the Garrison has ever seen. Shiro is, also, dying. He has medical recommendations coming from one direction and orders from his commanding officers from the other, and it’s a lot to take.

Sometimes he comes home with another barbell in his dick.

“It’s my body,” Shiro snaps the one time Adam brings it up, “and I didn’t hear you complaining about it last time we rubbed off together.”

Adam rears back as if struck — and maybe it’s cruel to use Adam’s own kinks against him; the friction had been spectacular — but Shiro knows the truth: it’s hard to fake being that turned on.

Anyway. 

He gets two last piercings in the tiny window before his pre-Kerberos quarantine begins. It’s a routine at this point: he calls his piercer and makes the appointment, pre-orders his jewelry, and does his laundry. Only this time, instead of driving there alone, he invites Keith to join him.

“It’s a ritual,” he says, only half-explaining the purpose of the trip. “Keeps me focused. Every time Sanda and the rest go on about how they think I can’t handle the mission, or how my health’s a risk — I know how tough I am.”

Keith has become a friend in the years since Shiro recruited him. His profile shows the passage of time in the new sharpness of his cheekbones, the hints of rangy muscle in his form. He’s not tall and might never be, but he’s growing into himself, even if the Garrison uniform fits him badly. He has more poise than Shiro did at the end of his teens, and watching Keith surpass his old records offers a hint of the same pleasure Shiro feels when he sits back and submits to the needle: satisfied, a little eager for the pain and the change it heralds. Shiro likes watching Keith surpass him. It’s like staring into the sun. 

“What do you do?” Keith asks. 

“Piercings,” Shiro says. “Don’t look so shocked — nothing against it in the rulebook, so long as it’s hidden from view. I know you’ve got that thing memorized.”

Shiro’s feeling reckless with the approach of the launch. It’s his last chance to really make a name for himself; he knows the Garrison won’t offer him a second one, and even Sam has cautioned him to approach the remaining months with extreme caution. This ritual is all he’s got left, and it’s fitting that he’s getting the last barbells for the ladder fitted today. 

He invites Keith to join him at the piercing station. For a moment, Keith seems overwhelmed and shocked, but he gets over his politeness once Shiro drops his sweats and lifts his flaccid length out of his shorts, tugging it upwards so Mercy can measure the placement for the newest piercings. The five barbells he’s got now gleam under the bright lights. For the first time, Shiro wonders what it would be like to switch out his jewelry, dress things up a bit; it’s a good thought. He hasn’t had one about the future in a while. 

Shiro counts off his piercings for Keith while Mercy gets her tools in order. “This was my first one,” he explains, giving the barbell a little twirl. It’s the first rung on his ladder, seated below the glans. It normally gets covered by Shiro’s foreskin, but he drags back the skin so Keith can get a closer look. “I got it when the doctors started giving me deadlines.” He chuckles grimly, and even Keith cracks a smile at the joke. Shiro’s convinced he can get Keith to laugh about Shiro’s terminal diagnosis, given enough time; Keith is usually generous about Shiro’s humor. 

“Really stuck it to them, huh,” Keith says. His eyes follow the curve and heft of Shiro’s dick, the way the jewelry gleams against the skin. “Tough guy.”

Shiro barks out a laugh, and even Mercy joins in. “Well, I wasn't gonna whip it out wherever Sanda said something about my capacity to withstand a challenge,” he says. “But yeah, pretty much. I know I can take whatever comes at me.”

“As long as whoever comes at you has ready access to an autoclave,” Mercy interjects. “You healed up beautifully from last time, but sanitation isn’t a joke, Shirogane.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shiro agrees. “You know I’m good for it, Mercy.”

“I got your medicine,” she sing-songs back, pulling on a new pair of gloves and picking up her tools. “Hey, your buddy’s not squamish, is he?”

“No,” Keith says, maybe a little too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“Well, I won’t catch you if you decide to faint,” she says, and gets to work.

Like always, it’s a pinch and burn, a deep exhalation. By now Shiro’s an old hand at the cleanup, and he tucks himself respectfully away after placing a pad of gauze in his shorts to catch any spotting. He glances up at Keith. “You good?”

“Fine,” Keith says. He’s got a splash of color high in his cheeks, like he’s sharing Shiro’s exhilaration. It’s better than looking like he might puke or faint. “Do you — ” He cuts himself off.

“What?” Shiro gets back onto his feet. Mercy shucks her glove and washes her hands before offering him a high five; they complete the gesture with the traditional fistbump and an explosive sound effect. 

“Do we have time for me to get something?” All in a rush, like Keith expects a denial but can’t hold back asking anyways. Keith — doesn’t usually ask for things. Shiro doesn’t bother to hide his delight. 

“No,” Mercy says firmly. “I’ll talk you through anything you want, and you can make an appointment, but I won’t pierce anyone without a cool-down period.” 

Keith deflates a bit — he _is_ old enough, legally, to get a piercing, but Mercy likes making younger clients wait — and agrees to a consultation. Shiro pays at the front while Mercy and Keith have a hushed and intense conversation; at one point, it involves Keith taking his shirt off. His shoulders look even broader without the over-large uniform jacket concealing them. Riding his own usual high and smugly thrilled that his coping mechanism might be one more legacy he leaves with Keith, Shiro adds a generous supplement to his client file with a note earmarking it for anything Keith might return to purchase for himself.

On the way back to base — Keith offers to drive and Shiro accepts, more to soften any lingering disappointment than because of any soreness — they sit in silence until the radio cuts out, like it always does, about twenty-five minutes from the parking garage. 

“So you gonna go back?” Shiro asks. There’s such a thing as being _too_ patient with Keith. He gets stuck inside his head if Shiro doesn’t prod him now and then. 

“Yeah,” Keith says. There’s no hesitation in his voice, just a flinty certainty. “I like the idea of it. Something the Garrison can’t take or mandate.”

Shiro smiles to himself; he thought that this quiet rebellion might speak to Keith, and Shiro enjoys being right. “Then I was right to bring you along,” he says. 

There’s a flash of a smile on Keith’s face. Shiro only sees it because he knows where to look. It’s not one of Keith’s usual smiles, the kind he gets when he feels confident and a little cocky; this one is private. Shiro should probably look away, because seeing it is like glimpsing Keith during his consultation, half-naked, shirt off and his back exposed. It’s private. It’s on the verge of being dangerous. 

Shiro has always liked a little danger, though.

* * *

During the months of quarantine prior to the launch, Shiro has a lot of time on his hands. It’s a paradox: his days are packed with training and testing and nutritionist appointments, studded with press conferences and Sanda’s period dress-downs. Shiro bears it all with his characteristic smile, and makes a point to charm and over-perform at every turn.

The evenings, though, are strange. He’s living alone in an efficiency apartment in the faux-habitat attached to the shuttle; Sam and Matt are in separate quarters the next building over. Ostensibly it’s to keep them all from contracting any viruses that might wreck havoc on them in space, or that might infect the ice samples they’re slated to retrieve. In reality, Shiro thinks it’s to prevent cold feet. Now that the Garrison has invested publicly in the mission and its players, the brass is doing everything in their power to keep a tight hold on that leash. There are weekly blood draws and carefully-monitored exercise programs and limited windows to communicate with the outside world. Shiro’s older sister is convinced Shiro has joined a really enthusiastic cult, not a space exploration program; all of their communications are monitored, so it’s hard to persuade her otherwise. 

Even Keith is rarely in view. Shiro knows Keith has been working on one of the piloting modules for the craft — he’s a cadet, but he’s too good to leave in the training pool, especially when he learns and reacts faster than the artificial bot pilot Matt’s little sister has been programming. His vague orbit around the mission means that Shiro gets to see him every now and then, though not nearly as often as they’d seen each other before the quarantine began. Shiro _misses_ Keith; it’s starting to mess with him. 

Shiro sits on his bunk late at night. He’s got the climate control turned up to its highest setting so it blasts him with frigid air, and his skin is taut with gooseflesh. Space is cold: he’s acclimatizing himself. Shiro’s maybe a little bit of an exhibitionist at this point — he’s had to disrobe for so many medical assessments and spacesuit fittings that he’s just as comfortable in the nude as he is when he’s fully dressed — so he strips down and lays himself out on the bed. If the Garrison is monitoring him here, in the dark, in his bed: fine. Let them watch. 

It’s been a while since Shiro had a partner. He and Adam imploded spectacularly right after the Kerberos assignment was announced and Shiro coped with the stress and increased workload in his preferred manner: that was when he’d added his latest two piercings. By now, they’re fully healed. 

He touches himself gently to start with, trailing his fingers along the length of his cock and fingering the protuberances of each piece of jewelry. All seven of them are relatively low-profile — Shiro didn’t see the point in gauging up, especially not before a deep space mission — and he can feel himself twitch and respond as he twirls the barbells, his blood and breath quickening. The texture is phenomenal. 

He spreads his thighs and leans back onto his solitary pillow. All of the piercings are spaced along the underside of the shaft, save for the first, the one that’s tucked neatly beneath his foreskin. He massages the covering back, enjoying the shift and pinch of the jewelry in the loose skin below. The head of his dick is flushing dark with blood. The tip glistens faintly as he warms himself up, almost wet. 

Shiro would like to say he doesn’t think of anything when he touches himself, that his mind goes clear and free and focused. That’s not true. Sometimes he thinks about the exultant trajectory of a flight plan, or that last time with Adam, or about someone warm and faceless rutting against him. Right now, he thinks of Keith. It’s a newer development, one that’s wheedled its way into Shiro’s hindbrain since their visit to the piercing salon. He’s not sure if Keith’s gone back for the piercing he’d wanted after seeing Shiro add to his ladder. He’d like to think that Keith has, has discovered the money Shiro left on account as a surprise. Shiro’s curiosity rears its head — rears up in tandem with his erection — and he wonders where Keith wanted to get pierced. If he’s gone back to Mercy’s salon, if he’s found out about the money Shiro left on account for him. 

It’s a predictable fantasy. It involves slick skin and the slow, eye-rolling pleasure of his piercings rubbing wetly against the underside of his shaft and that of his partner’s (what does Keith’s dick look like? Shiro wonders idly. Keith’s small. It’s probably cute); by the end of it, he’s breathing hard and his hand is a sloppy mess. That’s part of the fun, if Shiro’s honest. 

He washes up, returning to bed and flopping back down in a boneless, bare-skinned heap. There are six more days until the launch. He’ll have the option to say good-bye to his loved ones from behind a plexi screen in four days, and after that, it’ll just be the familiar faces of Sam and Matt for the entire run of the mission. 

By the time Shiro returns, Keith’ll be done with the program. If the Garrison brass don’t breathe down his neck like they’ve done to Shiro, Keith could be flying missions on his own. Shiro falls asleep with that focal point settling into the back of his mind; it’s a distinct possibility. There won’t be any reason to hold back, then. 

* * *

It takes longer for Shiro to return to Earth than he originally planned. He’d expected to die young, but what actually happens is — ridiculous. Dying once, fine. But twice? He’s not even sure if what happened to this body after the fight with Keith even counts as dying. He’s not sure if the spare bodies lost in the lab explosion count as dying. 

Whatever. Shiro’s had a lot of therapy. This isn’t, really, the weirdest thing he’s had to deal with. For the most part he shrugs it off and focuses on the business of piloting a massive, maybe-magical and absolutely sentient spaceship. 

What _is_ weird about having an entirely new body: even if the space-witch who grew you in a vat and experimented on you was aiming for a perfect copy, mistakes are going to get made. That’s the downside to keeping the same lead on a project for ten thousand years: no one checks their work after a while, and there’s never a new guy willing to look at the problem from another angle. Stagnation. 

Case in point: not all of the piercings Shiro acquired before Kerberos are still present and accounted for. It’s not that some piercings were removed and have since healed over: it’s more like whoever was growing this clone and installing its hardware (prosthetic, piercings, mind control programming, all the delightful little things that make up a mass-produced version of himself) had missed a couple of details. Two of his piercings — the two he’d gotten before going into quarantine on Earth — are gone. It’s a minor quibble, all things considered, but it annoys him every time he glances down and notices the empty spaces, every time he takes himself in hand. He’d been proud of those piercings. They’d really emphasized the length and commitment Shiro had made to his ladder, all seven steps of it. Shiro chose every single one of those piercings. 

Of all the things the war has taken, this feels like the biggest cheat.

It takes longer for him to _do_ something about it. He’s so busy advocating for Voltron and running test flights with Atlas that he barely has time to eat and sleep, let alone examine the current state of his body modifications. It’s an inconsistent annoyance: in the shower, soaping up before the workday; or in bed, rubbing one out so he can catch a few hours of sleep. It’s after one of these abortive sessions that Shiro finally pulls up his datapad, runs a series of searches, and is pleased to discover Mercy is still in business. He schedules an appointment for the following week.

The nights leading up to it, well, maybe he touches himself a little more than usual. He’s not getting off to get it out of his system — that’s not how arousal works, for Shiro — he’s wallowing in the anticipation. It feels good to touch himself, to fantasize about what touching himself will feel like a few months from now. To fantasize about who he might like to touch himself _with._ Much like his time in quarantine, before Kerberos, his thoughts migrate to one person in particular. The years have only increased Shiro’s affection and appreciation of Keith and all his fine qualities, and Keith has done so much good — and his shoulder-to-waist ratio has become even more compelling — and he’s saved Shiro so many times — 

When the appointed day arrives, Shiro cheerfully deflects all meeting requests and walks into the hanger to pick up the car he’s requisitioned for the trip. Keith’s leaning against the driver’s side, keys dangling from one elegantly outstretched finger. He’s unexpected, but no less welcome for it.

“Going on a joyride?” Keith asks. “Take me with you. Iverson’s trying to get me to cross-train my Blade squadron with his advanced flight cadets and I’m going nuts.”

“Why not,” Shiro grins. It’s just like last time: he deserves this. “But give me those keys. You can drive on the way home.”

“Deal,” Keith tosses them over and clambers in the driver side door anyway, swinging his legs up over the gearshift and sliding into the passenger seat. HIs hip flexion is beautiful to behold. “Where are we headed?”

“I’m getting myself a little something,” Shiro says. “As a reward. We survived a war, I should at least get to pick my next body mod, right?”

“Ah,” Keith says, turning forward. “We’re visiting Mercy.”

“I deserve the best,” Shiro sniffs. He drives in silence for a few minutes, listening to the way Keith hums tunelessly along with the radio. It’s playing some kind of Olkari-Galra jazz combo, one that feels specifically composed to become an earworm that’ll haunt Shiro for the rest of the day. The Garrison vehicles have all their stations welded to the post-apocalyptic equivalent of public radio, and everyone on base has made the conscious decision to lean into it: everyone’s always humming some bar or another. There aren’t any solid AM stations up and running yet, anyway. Shiro gives it another month. The community college is still getting their auditory history program in order. 

“Did you ever go back for anything?” He asks after jostling the car over a rut that takes up more space than the road it runs over. “After I left, I mean.”

Keith scratches his chest absently. “Yeah,” he says, in a way that indicates there’s a story involved. Shiro hopes it’s not a sad story, but: this _is_ Keith. “I never thanked you for the credit you left me.”

Shiro grins. “I _knew_ I was doing the right thing when I left that charge on file,” he says. “My first piercing got me through hours of ‘appropriate conduct’ lectures. Sanda could talk all she wanted about image consciousness and optics, and I got to feel smug as hell. Win-win. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as knowing she would have flipped her lid if she knew what I was up to.”

“Yeah, something like that,” Keith laughs. “You punk, I’m half-shocked you didn’t make an anonymous thirst account on Pictagram back in the day.”

“A gentleman never reveals his secrets,” Shiro says. Of _course_ he had an account. It was locked down tighter than the barracks after curfew, because the point wasn’t to let anyone else know about his private rebellion, but Shiro’s comfortably vain enough that he enjoyed taking the photos of himself. It felt illicit and powerful, even if it was the desk lamp spotlight equivalent of smoke and mirrors. He never bothered to figure out the filters, and it wasn’t like he switched out the jewelry he wore. 

He might pick the habit up again, unless he can find a more immediate audience. Shiro likes showing off.

They reminisce back and forth for the rest of the drive. Keith is washed gold by the light coming in through the tinted passenger window and he’s wearing a pair of Shiro’s old Aviator sunglasses to cut the glare. Shiro’s making do without, because he’s of the opinion that Keith wears them better. It's an easy drive. Shiro doesn’t give the road as much attention as he otherwise might. 

Keith is prettier than the scenery.

Mercy greets them at the doorway of her old place — well, her new place, built on the rubble of a rival salon three miles west of the old shop. But it looks the same. “Don’t tell me you had a piercing migrate,” she grouses when Shiro walks in. “I had such a good track record with you.”

“Just need a refresher,” Shiro lies smoothly, “Alien technology is wild out there, and it healed me a little _too_ well — it’s like I never got some of my piercings at all.”

He fills out the forms and picks out the jewelry he wants — plus a few new barbells for later, to intersperse along the ladder and change things up a bit. The benefit of a newly-open galactic trade route is that the types of glittering minerals available for body jewelry are more varied and attractive than ever. He anticipates feeling brave and brazen in the aftermath, like dressing up his cock and showing it off. Maybe he’ll feel up to making a move. 

He can’t help but notice how Keith sifts through the options too, and buys his own set of barbells with black opal beads at each end of the titanium bar. The opals remind Shiro of how the light in space hit the paint of the Black Lion: they look like they’re on fire. He wonders — exactly where Keith might put them. How the gemstones might look against Keith’s skin.

Mercy fills the time by sanitizing her work station and asking Keith about what types of mods he’s seen while stationed with the Blades. 

“Ever thought about an industrial?” she asks, tapping her own ear. “More visible than what you’ve got, but I think you could pull it off.”

“Yeah, and then someone else could pull it out in a fight,” Keith says wryly. “I think I’m good for now. Maybe another time.” 

Mercy reads carefully through Shiro’s paperwork before gesturing for him to take a seat.

“Keep me company,” Shiro commands, before Mercy or Keith have a chance to assume Shiro’s looking for total privacy. “It’s a momentous occasion, I deserve an audience.”

“That’s right,” Keith says. “It’s been a while.”

“You might even need to hold my hand,” Shiro snarks. He shoves his sweats down to mid-thigh and lies back, cupping his palms behind his neck. Keith doesn’t touch him, just stands close to Shiro’s shoulder. If Shiro weren’t clasping his own hands together, he could reach out and palm the curve of muscle just beneath Keith’s ass. 

Mercy’s piercing technique hasn’t changed much since Shiro left for Kerberos. Her tools are the same, and so’s the tickle of the anesthetic dye she applies with a toothpick. There’s that same wicked pinch and Shiro’s own sharp exhalation during the piercing, and the slide of the jewelry into the site is just as weird as it ever was. But Shiro’s changed; he’s changed a lot. Depending on how he looks at it, this is almost like being a needle virgin and getting pierced for the first time, all over again. 

(He ignores the fact that this body has been impaled at least once. It doesn’t count. This is an intentional procedure, and also: this time, Shiro is not being impaled by falling rebar. His life is so, so weird.)

During the split-second process, Keith _does_ offer his hand, and Shiro clasps it tightly. It’s probably a joke, but Shiro winds their fingers together anyway, pressing their palms close so Keith doesn’t think he needs to back off once the procedure’s finished. 

Mercy talks him through the aftercare. Shiro tugs his pants up awkwardly, one-handed, and tucks himself back into place with his prosthetic so he doesn’t have to let go of Keith. 

“Good as you remember?” Keith asks. Like last time, a thousand years ago, his eyes are bright and he’s carrying a flush high on his cheeks. Shiro’s struck with the thought — the _epiphany_ — that Keith is flustered. He’s flustered because of Shiro, because he got to see Shiro’s dick. Keith enjoyed it. 

It’s as good an opening as he’s ever going to get. In a rush of joy and confidence, he pulls hard on Keith’s hand, until Keith’s bent low over Shiro’s reclining form, and kisses him. Keith reciprocates enthusiastically; his lips are chapped. He needs to take better care of himself. 

“Two to four months!” Mercy yells from where she’s sterilizing her space again. “You can’t have sex for two to four months, until the piercings heal! Oh my god, this happens all the time, if you keep kissing I’m going to charge an additional fee.”

Shiro lets out a heartfelt groan at the reminder, even if it counts as getting ahead of himself. “I heal fast!” he protests, but subsides when Keith pats gently at his chest. 

“C’mon,” Keith tells him. He’s purpling with delight and there’s a yellow hint at the corners of his sclera, like he’s just as high on endorphins as Shiro is right now. _Delicious._ “Aren’t you the one who always goes on about patience and focus?”

“Brat,” Shiro says, without any heat. He pulls himself up from the chair and releases Keith’s hand, only to wrap and arm around his hip and shove his fingers obnoxiously into Keith’s back pocket. It’s a tight squeeze. “I’ll make you regret that.”

 _“His_ piercings are fine,” Mercy says, brandishing her credit reader so Shiro can pay and, if her amused muttering is any indication, get out of her sight. “You can play with _him_ all you like. But I don’t need to hear about it.”

Fair enough. Shiro pays and hustles Keith out to the car, boxing him in against the side and looming over him so he can block the sun; Keith left the Aviators in the car when they arrived. 

“So tell me,” he says, negotiating the position so he has maximum contact with Keith’s body without jostling his tender piercing site. His dick aches in a way that’s faintly pleasurable, and Shiro feels incandescent with fascination. All his focus is on Keith and figuring out Keith’s body mods; it feels like flying. “What do I have to look forward to?”

“Nothing exotic,” Keith says, tilting his chin up so he can still meet Shiro’s eyes. He moves Shiro’s flesh hand up to rest lightly on his chest. He’s grinning; the expression looks splendid on his face Shiro vows to do all he can to keep Keith smiling like that, until the wind changes and Keith's face freezes in a permanent guise of joy.

For a moment, Shiro is one hundred percent occupied with the rushing beat of Keith’s heart. Then he feels Keith’s piercings.

They’re low-profile and sharp-edged, likely barbells with pointed beads on the ends. Keith has two: one through each nipple. Symmetrical. Shiro rubs at one contemplatively and relishes the way Keith twitches forward into his touch. 

He feels focused, prepared to wait as long as it takes for his piercings to heal, just so long as Keith takes his shirt off in the interim. Shiro wants to _see_. 

“How patient do you think I need to be?” Shiro asks. “To get a chance to play with these, I mean.” He punctuates his interest with a firm little flick, is rewarded by Keith’s blush and a muted squeak.

“Shiro!” Keith looks awfully scandalized for someone who just invited Shiro to cop a feel. This’ll be fun. 

“I know, I know,” he says, “Not in a parking lot. I’ve got more class than that.” He herds Keith into the driver’s seat of the vehicle, keeping to the agreement that Keith’ll drive back. An agreement is a sort of promise; Shiro likes to keep his promises. “It’s okay if you’re shy. I can work with that. Talk you through some things.” Getting Keith somewhere quiet so Shiro can guide him through giving Shiro a show is a compelling idea, one that soothes the irritation of waiting for his own piercings to heal. Keith’s always been good at following orders — if Shiro’s the one giving them.

“Just get in the car,” Keith says. It’s not quite a plea; he’s not impatient. He looks wonderfully eager.

When he slips into the passenger seat, Shiro makes a point of giving Keith’s thigh a good squeeze. Nothing subtle, not a pinch. He wants Keith to know that this is real; Shiro will take all the time he needs to prove its permanence.

“All right, sweetheart,” Shiro says; a promise. “Let’s get this show on the road.”


End file.
